


pyrophile

by moonrocks



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Arson, Flashbacks, M/M, Mind Games, Missing Scene, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks
Summary: Pyrophile (noun)— someone who derives sexual gratification from fire and fire-starting activities.Lalo Salamanca has always been drawn to fire. It only makes sense that he becomes fixated on someone whose name means just that.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	pyrophile

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, uh, so. Content warning for *clears throat* arson, animal death, multiple murders, one mention of possibly implied rape, one mention of child abuse, general descriptions of violence and blood, and just Lalo being a disturbed individual altogether.
> 
> I hope I’ve made it explicitly clear that Lalo is a very, very bad person who deserves to rot in hell and I don’t condone any of his actions in the slightest. That being said, he’s very sexy.
> 
> This takes account of some of S05E09 but disregards most of it. Enjoy!

Pyrophile ( _noun_ )

— someone who derives sexual gratification from fire and fire-starting activities. 

_I. 1968_

Eduardo Salamanca was nine years old the first time he saw something burn to death.

Down the road from the countryside compound where he grew up, there was farmland. It stretched for acres and acres uninterrupted: cornfields and wheat fields, overgrazed cattle pastures, sorghum plants like clustered necklace beads in tall stocks. 

Sometimes there were houses. Small ones, made of dirt and straw and crumbling brick, that housed people his mother told him to stay away from. There were barns, old and decrepit, the mid-noon sky peaking through gaps above the haymow, making the splintered wood look like shattered teeth. These barns housed their fair share of animals: pigs and sheep and goats and chickens and mules, which Lalo could hear if he left his window open at night. 

They would natter away while Lalo pretended to be asleep, like goblins conversing beneath his bed. Sometimes he would creep downstairs to the backdoor, find his way in the dark to the very edge of the Salamanca property, scale the cement wall and sit with his sneakered feet dangling over the side. Sometimes he could see hazy light pouring across the field from a farmhouse below his line of sight. Sometimes he could see figures. Five, maybe six of them. They moved like a cavalcade of malformed shadows across the horizon. They sounded like teenagers, local farm kids, whooping and hollering as they ran through the grass. They sang, laughed, screamed. Lalo could smell cigarettes—cheap ones—not like the kind his father smoked. He could smell exhaust from a truck that had backfired, air pungent with gasoline. 

It excited him. 

He got used to being a voyeur, sneaking out of the house after his nanny had tucked him in. He spent several hours sitting atop that wall, waiting, watching, listening until he could no longer hear the farm kids cavorting and he crawled back into bed. 

When that got boring—like things always did with him—Lalo decided to go over the wall. 

The first time he went, he cut his knee on a piece of metal protruding from the brick. He could feel blood clotting against his pyjama pants as he ran through the grass, following the faint sound of laughter and movement somewhere near. 

He came upon a barn. It was partially lit, obscured on the inside by shapes that looked like writhing shadow puppets. He could hear voices, soft and muffled. He heard a gasp, a gleeful squeak, then the sound of something crumpling to the floor.

Lalo snuck closer, peered in through the window. 

He saw the dirt speckled outline of a flock of sheep, corralled into their pens with their lambs. Their ears flapped lazily as their eyes blinked open and shut. And then he saw skin, the tan, sinewed back of some farm boy, the outline of a girl underneath him. Her naked legs were cinched around his waist as she sighed in time to his movements. Their bodies were tinted tangerine by the candlelight, but it made them look sick, off-colour. Their limbs tangled together, grotesque and contorted like twisted globs of plasticine.

Lalo stood there, transfixed and confused before the girl threw her head back. Her throat was exposed. It was flushed pink and satined with sweat. She seemed to look right at him. 

Startled, Lalo took a step backward. His foot slid in the mud and he fell to his knees, his cut prodded apart by the impact with the dirt. The pain that tore through his leg was enough to make him run. 

Tracing his way back home through the field, he ran and ran and ran. His breath was a sear mark in his chest, as fervid as his fascination and his shame. The two intertwined irreversibly before Lalo could reach his bedroom door, before his father could beat him for sneaking out.

When Lalo returned several weeks later, the field was awash in firelight. 

He followed it through the grass, reaching out as if to touch it with his fingers. At the bottom of the hill, the barn was burning like a funeral pyre of smoke and ash fit for a hundred corpses. The flames billowed upwards and outwards. Lalo could feel the heat on his face, tightening his skin over his cheeks. 

The fire reached higher and higher. It swallowed the haymow with black and orange tendrils, a smear of smoke marring the otherwise cloudless sky. It blotted out the stars as the fire roared and seared. For something so hot, it sounded wet, like splitting waves or water rolling into a tub above submerged ears. 

Despite the volume of the flames, Lalo could still hear the high-pitched whine of animals crying inside the barn. The sheep screamed a morbid swan song as they slowly burned, the lining of their lungs coated in smoke every time they inhaled. Their lambs were probably dead already, too weak to weather the heat. Lalo ran to the fence but the fire darted out like a forked tongue, warning him to stay away. The windows had shattered from the force of the blaze. The flames were a pathless veil pulled across the doorway. 

It was impenetrable, its destruction inevitable.

Lalo sunk to his knees behind the fence, peering between the slots in the wood. It hurt to look at. The smoke made his eyes water, as did the smell, charred like burnt toast. He could taste it on the roof of his mouth. Tears that were blackened with soot slid down his face but all he could do was watch. It was all he _wanted_ to do.

The fire seethed until the roof caved in and the barn began to collapse inward, the foundation withered to ash and unable to withstand the weight any longer. The sheep had stopped crying just as the fire sputtered and dissipated into mostly smoke. 

The cruelty of it almost made Lalo laugh. He had no other response. There was no reason to run for help now, no reason to cry. What was done was done, with only ash and bone to confirm it ever happened at all. 

Weeks, months, even years later, Lalo would wake up in the middle of the night thinking he was the one who set the fire. The method changed from dream to dream—a stray cigarette, the nub of a cigar, a box of matches he had stolen from his father—but the outcome remained the same. 

Sometimes, Lalo still wishes it had been him.

_II. 2004_

The air is sweltering the first time Lalo meets Ignacio Varga. 

All he feels is heat: heat from the flat top as he grills skirt steak and steam rises up to meet him, heat from the faulty AC, heat from the sun bleeding through the windows that illuminates the kitchen in muted, slanted streaks. 

The music blares as Lalo hunches over the flat top. He hums to himself, running over the information Don Eladio gave him before he crossed the border. Ignacio Varga: former right hand to Tuco, errand boy for Don Hector. Varga was there when Tuco picked the fight that got himself arrested, he was there when _tio_ had his stroke, and he had taken two bullets for the Salamanca operation not long after.

Lalo doesn’t trust him. 

Trust is still on his mind when Lalo turns around and Varga is there, leaning against the support beam, expression blank but his eyes simmering with suspicion. Lalo smiles. He is pleased by his overconfidence. While Molina and the cook had exchanged awkward pleasantries then avoidantly sat in the dining area with their backs turned, Varga had walked right in. He takes up space by the doorway, puffing himself up to look bigger than he is. His arms are crossed, his shoulders tensed, lips pressed together. Lalo sees the slight bulge of a gun tucked into his waistband, one he recently reached for judging by the way his shirt is rumpled above his jeans.

It makes Lalo laugh.

Lalo feels a different kind of heat when he gets close to Varga, their hips a tenuous few inches from touching. Lalo offers him the plate of food. Even after some pestering, Varga refuses. Lalo is too amused to be offended or register his rejection as a slight.

They talk about the business without really talking about business. Instead, they get a feel for each other, testing the waters of their sudden partnership. Every time Lalo turns his back, Varga has moved. He circles Lalo like prey pretending to be predator while Lalo pretends to be prey: singing, laughing, his body language relaxed. 

They dance around each other. The music swells. Lalo likes this game even if he can read Varga without trouble, clocking his attempts to look at ease. It entertains him, but he also thinks it must be a good sign. Varga is smart. He has the right idea, treading so carefully. Only a fool would let their guard down around a Salamanca, especially this one.

Lalo offers Varga a shrug before leaving the kitchen to sit down beside Domingo. A minute passes before Varga follows him out. He leans against the table across from them, watching Lalo as he eats his taco and attempts to joke around. Domingo plays along but is too shy and too easy, not as fun to toy with. Lalo chuckles and glances over at Varga. The intensity in his eyes never lessens. They burn and burn and burn.

_Ignacio._

Lalo thinks of fire.

Days later, fire is still on his mind when he follows a 1988 Chrysler Fifth Avenue to the TravelWire on Fourth Street. 

The killing means nothing to Lalo. It is a means to an end, nothing more and nothing less. If he had gotten what he wanted, there would have been no reason to make such a mess. Then again, hiding the mess is half the fun.

Lalo wipes the blood from his face and pulls a matchbook from his back pocket. He counts them inside. Their tips are bright red and begging to be set alight. He has six of them left. 

He can work with six. 

Lalo starts by knocking over a stack of folders. He pulls papers from the desk drawers, the file cabinets, the shelves above the computer. Documents full of names and addresses and banking information litter the floor. They blanket the limp body of the attendant whose name Lalo has either forgotten or just never bothered to learn. 

He grabs a canister of gasoline from his car. When he comes back, blood is pooling in a semicircle on the floor. It stains the bleached edges of the paper as crimson creeps upwards to cloak the ink. Lalo finds the nearest smoke detector behind the front desk and smashes it open with the butt of his gun, disabling it. After deleting the security footage, he pulls the tangled cords from the dusty computer monitor and knocks it onto the floor. The screen cracks with an anticlimactic crunch. He tips the office chair over, smashes a TravelWire branded mug, empties out canisters of pencils and pens.

When he is satiated, he coats the entire room in gasoline, the air unbearably thick with its stench. Lalo finds himself thinking about Hotel Tulipan again. It was one instance of many where Hector brought him along to clean up his mess. Lalo remembers the smell of petroleum that stuck to his clothes, the sound of blood spilling onto the floor as Hector fired the bullet that would tear through the owner’s skull, the horrified expression on his wife’s face as Hector made her watch. 

Lalo could still hear her garbled screams while he got to work on the lobby, drenching the woollen carpet and full-grain leather furniture with gasoline. When Hector was done, the decorative trinkets and expensive books Lalo had ripped into pieces all went up in flames. He saw it then: the bell that now sits snugly between the arm of Hector’s wheelchair and his trigger finger, the same bell Lalo went back for because he could never resist a souvenir.

Nothing else would be left to show for it. He made sure of that.

When Lalo is finished, the body of the attendant is thoroughly soaked, his red hair fanned out on the floor, shiny and sopping. Lalo strikes the first match. He lets the flame burn down to his fingertips, feeling the heat, pausing in the moment before it burns his skin. 

He nonchalantly tosses it onto the body. The fire catches quickly, burning a hole through the bright orange uniform, flames entangling with the fabric until Lalo can’t tell where they begin and end. 

He uses several more of the matches, quickly tossing them over the body into the farthest corners of the room. The fire really begins to pick up. It roars loudly in his ears. As the flames rise behind the glass divider and the heat starts to tickle the nape of his neck, Lalo grabs the brochures Michael was looking at. He burns the rest, leaving the plastic canister of gasoline to shrivel and melt amongst them. 

Lalo has always had a habit of lingering, waiting until the last moment he can escape the fire unscathed. The smoke sticks inside his nostrils and he feels pleasantly light-headed, a muted arousal lining the bottom of his stomach.

His arm hair is singed by the time he leaves, the door handle hot and flames licking at his loafers. He gets back into his car, watching until the windows shatter outwards from the overwhelming heat. Sirens begin to blare somewhere in the distance. 

He drives off. A grin splits his face.

Lalo returns to the restaurant after his one-sided phone call with Michael is sadly cut short. He parks his car against the curb and walks towards the door, twirling the keys on his index finger. Nacho is sitting at the table behind Domingo as they both count cash, the cook busying himself in the kitchen. There is no music this time, no friendly chatter, just the sound of meat cooking on the grill and the rhythmic snap of rubber bands. 

Lalo whistles lowly to make up for the lack of ambience. Domingo glances up from his count as the door swings open and shuts with just as much force. He offers a hello, his voice deliberately low like a twelve-year-old boy trying to hide his prepubescence. Lalo waggles his eyebrows at him and Domingo quickly looks away. 

Nacho says nothing, but Lalo can feel his eyes evaluating his every move as he approaches. Lalo passes him without a word and heads towards the staff washroom. Without warning, Nacho follows behind him, the legs of his chair loudly squealing against the floor as he gets to his feet.

“Hey, everything good?” Nacho asks before Lalo can shake him off. 

Lalo stops in front of the washroom. He raises his eyebrows at him. “Yeah, why?”

“Just asking,” Nacho says. “I have your cut of collection by the way.”

Lalo snorts, looking Nacho up and down. Nacho appears too eager for his own good. “I dunno how my cousin Tuco ran things, but you don’t have to be up my ass twenty-four-seven, Nacho,” Lalo says. “Can I take a piss, please?”

Nacho backs off, showing his palms in surrender. Shaking his head, Lalo disappears into the washroom and does his business. Nacho must hear him running the tap because he enters not long afterwards. He awkwardly lingers in the doorway.

“Do I need to get the guys ready?” Nacho asks. 

Lalo frowns as he pumps bubblegum pink soap into his palm. “Why would you?”

“Your meeting with Fring,” Nacho says as if it should be obvious. “If Fring is making moves against the cartel, I need to know. Y’know, keep my guys on the lookout.”

“ _No te preocupes_ _, amigo_.” Lalo chuckles. “Nothing to worry about, man.”

As Lalo lathers his hands and rinses them, he realizes there is a smudge of soot on his left wrist. He rubs at it and the blackened streak draws an ashen line down his tendon. It makes him smirk. 

He wonders if Nacho can smell the smoke stuck to his clothes, if he can see the evidence on his skin. A part of him hopes that Nacho can. A part of him hopes that Nacho asks. Lalo can feel a familiar heat flaring underneath his pulse points as he considers telling Nacho how it went down: the colour of the flames, the feel of them against his face, the way they swarmed like locusts, leaving nothing behind.

Lalo dries his hands off, the soot on his wrist washed away. He approaches Nacho as he tosses the balled up paper towel into the trash can behind him. 

“If you need to get your guys ready, I’ll tell you,” Lalo says and smiles. Lines deepen all over his face, moustache flattening above his lip. “Alrighty?” 

Nacho nods. Lalo remains crowded into his space even though things have been seemingly settled. He feels a peculiar pull towards him, a need to be close. He notices Nacho’s eyes wandering down to his wrist, tracing the skin that peeks out beneath his sleeve.

“Was the story true?” Nacho asks. He looks disgusted yet fascinated, both reactions masked by his reserve. “About the bell and Don Hector?”

“Of course,” Lalo says. “Why would I lie?” He takes a half-step towards Nacho, bows his head to meet his height. He lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “You calling me a liar, Ignacio?”

Nacho noticeably stiffens, his arms across his chest. Lalo looks at his throat. His Adam’s apple is hard and still. Lalo thinks about the attendant’s body contorted on the floor, the flames swallowing him whole, wrapping him up in their tongues. He could do that to Nacho just as easily, but he has something else planned.

“I’m just shitting you.” Lalo laughs and the tension fractures into jagged pieces. He moves away from Nacho but doesn’t let him go. Not yet. “Do you know what your name means?”

“My name?” Nacho asks, skin creasing between his eyebrows. 

“Your name, Ignacio. Do you know what it means?”

Nacho swallows. Realization smooths out the creases in his face. 

“Fire.”

_III. 1973_

After his father died, Lalo shadowed his uncle everywhere he went.

With his father gone, the family compound became a place where Hector could conduct business away from the prying eyes of the Federales. Lalo would watch the dons from a distance as they drank their tequila and smoked their cigars, the staff anxiously waiting on them hand and foot. The cars parked in the driveway and down the street were always expensive and indiscreet: Rolls Royce, Lamborghini, Aston Martin, Mercedes Benz. They all dressed in designer suits, rings on their fingers, Rolexes decorating their wrists. 

The violence was always there, lingering just underneath their flashy jewellery and silk button-downs. His mother had always ignored it, even when his father came home with blood beneath his fingernails and a few less rounds in his magazine. Lalo had quickly learned to ignore it too, at least before he learned to enjoy it. His father never discussed his work at length. His easy charm always concealed its true nature, but Hector was the opposite. He was gruff, straight-forward, always telling stories that would frighten and thrill Lalo despite the strict disapproval of his parents. His _tio_ embraced the violence and the violence embraced him, which is why he lived and his second-born brother did not.

After the dons left, Lalo would sit by the pool in their place, imagining what it was like to be so respected and feared as he picked up matches that were strewn beneath the lounge chairs. The shrivelled match heads were cooled by then, the char rubbing off on his fingers as he pinched them. He could smell the burnt phosphorus along with the sweet smoke that lingered from their cigars. It was like a cologne: overwhelming, intoxicating, soaking every part of him in its scent. 

Lalo had always wanted to be just like them—just like his _tio_ —and he knew someday he would get what he wanted. At fourteen years old, it was the only thing that could keep him at bay.

Thursday, November 2, 1973. The Salamanca household was awash with music. Lalo could hear the chatter of guests. He could smell bread cooking in the oven and tamales steaming on the stove.

He gravitated to the _ofrenda_ in the sitting room. It was decorated extravagantly. Bowls of fruit and _pan de muerto_ sat atop table cloths colourfully dyed with purples and oranges, reds and blues, along with several bouquets of wild marigolds, intricately crafted _calavera,_ sainted candles. In the middle of the _ofrenda_ stood photographs of his father, some of them framed, some of them carefully propped up against the offerings. They were all in black and white, slightly faded, taken years before Lalo was born when his father had still been handsome.

His moustachioed grin beamed back at Lalo as he placed the candle he was holding on top of the table, nestling it between the food. He produced a lighter from his pocket. He flicked the spark wheel with his thumb, and lit the candle. The wick popped and snapped, the flame blue and concentrated until it warmed into orange and spread outwards.

Lalo looked on. He looked on for a while, staring at the photo of his father until he heard celebration coming from the other room. The gravelly voice of his _tio_ hit his ears. Lalo turned to see him sauntering inside, reeking of liquor and tobacco. A bottle of mezcal was held casually in his hand.

“Ay, _sobrino,_ ” Hector said. “You look taller.”

Lalo was giddy from the moment he saw him. “ _Tio_ , since when were you coming?”

“What do you mean since when, you little bastard?” Hector grumbled, a smarmy smirk pulling at his lips. “Of course I came.” 

Lalo grinned from ear to ear as his uncle came to stand beside him in front of the _ofrenda_. Hector leaned over and kissed Lalo on the top of his head, a sun-spotted hand settling on the crown of his skull. 

“How is business?” Lalo asked.

“Give and take,” Hector said with a shrug. “But we Salamancas know how to take. Do we not?”

Lalo laughed, then glanced at the bottle of mezcal. “Is that for _papá?_ ”

Hector nodded. He pulled off the cork. It loosed with a wet and satisfying pop. “Yes, for my brother and for me.”

Lalo watched as his uncle took a swig, then he looked back at the photographs of his father. Lalo wondered what he would think of him now. Older, taller, almost a man. Hector must have caught Lalo staring because he harrumphed, made a tutting sound with his tongue against his teeth. 

“Your _papi_ was a smart man, but he was weak,” Hector told Lalo, his eyes narrowed and unimpressed. He took a cigar from his breast pocket. He fiddled with the frayed wrapper of the capped end. “He was weak and he paid for it with his blood: Salamanca blood. Remember that, Eduardo.”

Lalo watched Hector set the mezcal beside the candle he had lit for his father. The flame reflected through the translucent liquid, projecting misshapen fractals against the table and the photographs. They shifted and stilled as the alcohol sloshed and settled inside the bottle. 

“Family is all,” Lalo said.

With a grunt, Hector lit his cigar. “Family is all.”

He tossed the match, still smoking, onto the floor. Lalo imagined him throwing it amongst the marigolds instead, letting it sit there until the flowers were set alight. The _ofrenda_ and everything on it would burn. The candles would tip over, spilling hot wax onto the floor and the photos of his father would curl into ashen ribbons from the heat, smiling no more. 

Lalo felt his heart quicken at the thought of it, but he was interrupted by his mother calling him from the kitchen. “ _Mijo,_ go outside! Alberto wants to play.”

Lalo did as he was told, leaving his father and uncle alone together. The candles burned down to their withered wicks but no further than that. 

_IV. 2004_

Prison is dull. 

From morning to morning, Lalo feels boredom eating away at his insides. In the cafeteria, he thinks about picking a fight, but that would risk his bail. In the showers, he thinks of propositioning one of the faceless, tattooed backs that are turned to him, but no one knows who Jorge de Guzman is. Lalo misses his Salamanca name. Its absence makes the idea of toying with someone much less enticing. 

In his cell after lights out, Lalo absentmindedly fiddles with a stray thread on his cot, then swats at a disjoined piece of metal that hangs off the bed frame above him. On the outside, he is relaxed, cooperative like Goodman advised him to be, wholly a nonentity. On the inside, he is restless enough to find any excuse for violence. 

Lalo thinks about the Chilean. 

He would not be surprised if Fring had something to do with his arrest, but he has no idea how the rug was pulled out from under him without even a tip-off. As soon as Lalo stepped inside just one of seven _Los Pollos Hermanos_ , he knew there was something off. It was all so clean and uniform, just like Fring himself: the standardized menu, the napkins and cups all decorated with the same kitschy chicken logo, the blue and red booths that matched the blue and red walls. 

The restaurant was a front, that much was clear, but the man Lalo met was also a front, a front for another front for yet another front. Lalo doubts the line ever really ends with Fring. He would like nothing more than to see everything the Chilean has worked for go up in smoke.

When the cell phone is slipped under the door of his cell, Lalo feels some sort of relief, a confirmation that the world is still out there and his work is not done yet. He calls Nacho who picks up after a single ring. Lalo is tickled by the thought of Nacho waiting eagerly for his word. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey.”

They talk business—some issue with Sixth Street Nacho said he would handle personally since “Ocho Loco” got himself arrested last time—but Lalo is unconcerned. He quickly changes the subject. 

“Listen, I got something for you to do,” Lalo says. Nacho goes quiet on the other end of the line. Lalo keeps talking, barely able to stop himself from giggling as he says it. “I want you to burn down a _Pollos Hermanos_.”

Nacho is quiet still. Lalo frowns, pulling the cell phone from his ear to check if the call was dropped. He raises his voice above a whisper. “ _Hola,_ Nachito, you still there?”

Nacho answers in the form of a sigh. “You sure having the cops open up another arson investigation is the best thing for us right now?”

Lalo blows a raspberry. “You’re overthinking it, Ignacio. Fring won’t push it. You get in, you get out, no one will see you.”

“There are other ways of sending a message.”

Lalo rolls his eyes. “Come on, man, this way is a hell of a lot more fun. You’ll see.”

“Alright, what do you want me to do?”

Lalo beams. “Ah, I knew you’d be interested.”

He describes exactly what he wants done to the restaurant in vivid detail, destruction he wishes he could cause himself. He sees it so easily: spray paint all over the walls, the cash register smashed to pieces, the soda machine torn from the counter and draining out on the floor.

Nacho only interrupts every now and then to pose a logistical question. He asks when he should go, which car he should take, what supplies should he use, which _Pollos Hermanos_ would have the fastest exit route. Lalo leaves all of that up to him, too preoccupied by the tantalizing image of fire engulfing every corner of the restaurant, filling it floor to ceiling with flames.

“Alright, I think I got it,” Nacho says. “So, we good? Lalo?” 

Lalo’s name sounds soft and easy in Nacho’s mouth as his breath hitches into a question. Lalo feels arousal sink between his legs. He loses himself for a moment, reaching down to palm his cock through his prison slacks. It stiffens against his thigh. He bites back a groan with a smile. 

“You think you got it, huh?” Lalo teases and his voice is low and smooth. “Repeat it all back to me.” 

Nacho is silent again. It only emboldens Lalo. He slips his hand underneath the waistband of his underwear, making sure to keep the cell phone close to his ear. He sighs shakily as he takes himself in hand, making sure Nacho can hear it. Nacho says nothing in response. By the way his silence is weighted, Lalo can tell that he knows.

“Do as I say, Ignacio.”

Lalo expects Nacho to hang up—it would be no skin off his back if he did—but Nacho stays on the line, does what Lalo tells him. Lalo is almost annoyed that Nacho gives in so easily, but his disappointment is quickly soothed when Nacho’s voice pours into his ears like an ointment. Nacho goes through the plan step by painstaking step, every word he chooses so much more careful than anything Lalo could come up with.

Nacho focuses less on the logistics this time and more on the effect, the destruction, the heat. Lalo continues stroking himself, slowly, prolonging the act. Nacho keeps talking. Maybe he is afraid of what Lalo will do if he stops, maybe he is fascinated despite his disgust, like he was with the bell. Lalo thinks he hears Nacho’s interest pique as he describes pouring gasoline onto the floor, his breathing less measured than it was when they started. 

As he runs his thumb over the head of his cock, Lalo finds himself less interested in the proposed fire and more transfixed by Nacho’s voice. He had thought Nacho was surprisingly soft-spoken the first time they met. He was not as intimidating as his image made him seem: maroon shirt buttoned halfway down a black tank top, gold chain, snake earring, pointed leather boots. 

Lalo thinks about dressing Nacho down to just his voice, imagining his lips against his jaw, long eyelashes brushing his cheek. There is a pause when Nacho finishes his detailed play-by-play. The damage has been done; Lalo is close. 

“Then what will you do?” Lalo asks. 

Nacho takes a breath. “Just like you said: set it alight.”

Heat engulfs Lalo from his fingers to the soles of his feet as he spills out into his fist, letting out a satiated sigh that tapers off into a moan. Nacho is quiet on the other end as Lalo comes down from his climax, regaining his composure with a languid smile. Lalo is wiping his hand off on the sheets, cell phone still perched against his ear, when he hears it. A faint succession of gasps, a choked-out groan that Nacho seems to be desperately trying to hold back. 

Lalo smirks. He leans back in his bunk, an arm behind his head. “That’s it, Ignacio,” he says. “You’re going to do so well. You’ll see.”

_V. 1982_

In the city, Lalo learned to work with his hands. 

Collection was conducted every week at an auto repair shop, located not too far from where Lalo was living. It was discreet, unassuming, not an unusual place to see expensive cars pass through several hours a day each week. In between pick-ups and drop-offs, Lalo spent most of his time in the garage. He would fix up cars that were either stolen off the street or confiscated from associates who refused to pay their share. 

Lalo tinkered with the engines until they purred like house cats, the combustion inside a much more measured destruction than what he was used to. He replaced the carburetors, topped off the brake fuel, finished each car with a fresh coat of paint and a hand wax before taking them out for a test drive at the nearest track.

It was the only thing he liked building rather than breaking down, aside from his reputation inside the cartel. 

At twenty-three, his uncle had set him up with a crew, running product between supply lines and distributing it through Salamanca territory. He was in charge of conducting low-stake deals, relaying information to the dons who were higher-up than him but beneath Hector. Even with his limited experience, Lalo was expected to keep the street dealers in line, handle any issues that came up with the authorities or rival crews. He was starting to make a name for himself, building upon the one he already had. 

Lalo had taken over the crew from someone several years his senior. Mateo had more experience running things than anyone in the crew. Technically, Lalo should have been under him, but Mateo had come from nothing. He had no name, no family, nothing to reassert his position within the cartel. 

It should have been a sign, but Lalo took to him immediately. He was the first lieutenant Lalo ever had. He was the first man Lalo ever touched.

Lalo had watched from the doorway as Mateo drove his fist into the face of a local shop owner, one that had refused to pay up despite previous warnings. One, two, three, four hits and Lalo could hear the unpleasant crunch of bone breaking. Blood freckled the floor like the hot rod red paint he had just used on a 1980 Chevy Camaro. Mateo had his back turned, his curls a tangled mess at the nape of his tanned neck as he brought his knuckles down until they split.

The picture frames on the wall shook with the force of each blow. Grand openings, customer appreciation days, local fundraising events, family photographs: smiling faces stared at Lalo as he observed the violence in front of him, biting back a grin of his own.

“How come you make me do all the work?” Mateo asked when it was over. 

He stepped over the body of the shop owner, unconscious but still twitching on the floor.

“I would rather finish the job,” Lalo said with a shrug. “But I don’t mind watching.”

Mateo emptied out the register while Lalo passively fiddled with one of the picture frames, tipping it even more off-kilter. It was a photograph of the shop owner and his children, black and white, scratched and faded like an old record. 

“ _La familia es todo_ ,” Lalo reminded himself.

With the money in the bag, they took off in their getaway car. Lalo had just made some modifications to improve the suspension system, swapped out the tires for better traction, upgraded the rotors and replaced the brake hoses. He drove to the nearest race track, parking on the edge of the dirt course while Mateo counted the total of their collection. It would be divided and distributed accordingly, the Salamanca cut always second-biggest.

Lalo got out of the car, smoked a cigarette as he leaned up against the hood, still hot from the engine. Eventually, Mateo came to stand beside him.

“ _La familia es todo_ ,” Mateo repeated, his chin pointed towards the starless sky. His eyes looked like ink pots, mimicking the backdrop of the desert that stretched on and on and on. “What is that?”

Lalo took another drag of his cigarette, ran a hand over his clean-shaven face. “Something my uncle hammered into my head as a kid,” he explained and tapped a finger against his temple. “Family is all. When it comes down to it, the Salamancas are the only people a Salamanca can trust.”

“And you trust them?” Mateo asked. 

Lalo snorted. He was amused that Mateo would even feel compelled to ask such a question. “Of course I do. Who else?” Lalo raised his eyebrows, pointing at Mateo with the lit end of his cigarette. It shed ash as he crowded into Mateo’s space. Smoke poured from his lips. “Can I trust you, Mateo?”

“An operation like this requires trust,” Mateo said without flinching. “When something goes wrong, you want a man behind you who has your full confidence.”

“My uncle does.”

“Does he? Is this not a betrayal of his trust already?” Mateo gestured between them. “You expect me to believe that Don Hector would approve of this?”

Lalo placed the cigarette between his teeth, anger simmering in his stomach. He bit down and the filter split as he grabbed Mateo by the front of his jacket and slammed him against the car. Mateo winced, his head connecting with the hood. Lalo brought their faces close.

“I would _never_ betray my family. My uncle trusts me to do right by his business and the Salamanca name,” Lalo hissed and the cigarette fell from his mouth. It had landed on Mateo’s chest, threatening to burn a circle through his ribs. “Remember who you fucking work for.”

There was silence, twisted and opaque like the smoke that rose from the cigarette, and then Mateo was laughing. His hands immediately went to Lalo’s belt, unbuckling it, rubbing his erection through his jeans. 

“I won’t forget,” Mateo said.

But he did.

Several months passed before anyone realized Salamanca-assigned product was being stolen from their supply chain. It was gradual enough that it could have been chalked up to an inventory error: a teenth here and a teenth there until the stockpile built up into something substantial enough to be sold out on the streets, all without having to cut the Salamancas in. It would have been easy money— _good_ money—and surely it should have gone unnoticed.

But Lalo noticed.

Over a period of weeks, he followed its distribution through the city, figured out who used it, when they used it, where they got it from. He followed the conjecture that passed between street dealers and skells. He watched his men even more closely than he usually did. It had to be someone who had the access, the time, and the ambition to rip his family off, someone who lacked ties to the cartel that would otherwise keep them in line. 

Only one person could have done it. 

“You wanted to see me,” Mateo said as he stepped into the garage. 

Lalo glanced over his shoulder. He was hunched over the engine of a 1972 Plymouth Road Runner, trying to repair its gummed-up carburetor. A canister of gasoline sat by his feet as he drained the engine clean. The car had been abandoned out by the casino, having belonged to a known cartel associate who disappeared over a year prior, leaving the gas to stew inside the engine until it corroded the mechanisms. But by the time Lalo was done with it, the car would be running smooth again.

“Shut the door.”

Mateo did as he was told. The garage door slowly edged downwards until only a slit of light beneath it remained. Lalo turned around, feeling the gun stiff at the back of his jeans. He reached for a rag to wipe the engine grease from his hands. 

Mateo looked unconcerned; he probably assumed Lalo called him in for a routine check. “Lalo, what is this about?”

Lalo twisted the rag back and forth between his hands, clenching his fists, nails biting into his palms like stigmata. He stalked over to the sink, turned it on, and the pipes rattled violently in the walls. When they cooked together, his mother always instructed him to clean his hands before he got them dirty again.

“I know what you did,” Lalo said as he washed the oil away. It coated the sprigs of hair on his knuckles, seeping down to his wrists. The water ran cold, growing black and murky before it swirled down the drain. “I know it was you who was skimming off the Salamanca supply. You betrayed me, Mateo. You betrayed my family.”

Lalo tossed the rag aside and turned around. He reached for his gun in his waistband. He aimed, pulled the trigger. One shot, two shots, three shots. Mateo slumped to the floor, blood spraying onto the garage door in a dripping arch behind him. 

Returning his gun to his jeans, Lalo kicked over the canister of gasoline. The liquid spilled out. Its amber fingers creeped forward, reaching out, curling around Mateo’s body. Lalo smoked another cigarette, thinking about how trust can only end in betrayal and betrayal can only end in flames.

He flicked the cigarette onto the floor.

_VI. 2004_

After his bail is paid and the paperwork is filed, Lalo calls Nacho to pick him up from the MDC. 

Lalo is immediately relieved when he sees Nacho’s AMC Javelin slow to a halt beside him and Goodman, a shock of red in the middle of the dimly lit street. Nacho peers over at them from the driver’s side before returning his eyes to the road, his face unrevealing. Lalo grins from ear to ear. Soon enough, he will be south of the border and on his way back home, kissing Albuquerque and all the trouble it caused him goodbye.

After some parting words to Goodman, Lalo gets into the car. Nacho says nothing as he settles into the passenger seat, his hands stiff against the steering wheel. 

“What? No welcome back?” Lalo teases, reaching over to turn on the radio. A pop song blares through the speakers. He starts flipping through the channels. Nacho glances over at him. He looks unsure, his eyes framed by furrowed eyebrows. Seeing his unease, Lalo chuckles. “Come on, man. Not exactly the congratulations I was looking for.”

Nacho eases up but still refuses to play along. It makes Lalo feel just as restless as he did on the inside. He resorts to tapping a rhythm on his knee, humming along to the radio as they settle into the uncomfortable lull of conversation. Nacho is a man of few words—Lalo surmised as much from their first meeting—but this is unusual even for him. Nacho puts the car in gear and pulls off the curb. At the nearest intersection, they immediately hit a red light. 

Nacho clears his throat. “Business is good,” he says. “I have Domingo working collection still—no issues there—and the problem with Sixth Street has been dealt with. Had to bring in a few more guys than I thought, but things sorted themselves out.”

“Good,” Lalo says, his vowels elongated in an attempt to feign interest. “I knew I made the right choice leaving you in charge.”

The light turns green, but Lalo catches Nacho looking at him before the traffic moves ahead. Nacho averts his eyes, hand coming to rest on the shift stick. The Javelin purrs as Nacho inches his foot onto the gas. It reminds Lalo of the last time they spoke, how Nacho had sounded on the other end of the line. A restive arousal stirs beneath his skin. He feels the urge to do something about it, but he leans back in his seat, hands behind his head, preferring to let the tension swell.

“I heard about the fire,” Lalo says. He lets out a chuckle, amused by the mere thought of it. “I doubt the pictures in the paper do it justice, but beautiful work, man, and I mean beautiful. Did you like it as much as I thought you would?” 

Another red light. Nacho keeps his eyes fixed forward. “It caused a lot of damage. I think Fring got the message.”

Nacho sounds indifferent. His answer is avoidant, which sets Lalo on edge. He stares down the street. The crosswalk indicator tickers and the traffic light blinks, sending intermittent streaks of red streaming into the car. It colours Nacho’s face in the dark: red then nothing, red then nothing, red then nothing, then red again. His pupils look like cherry pits, hard and glossy, and Lalo tries to imagine the reflection of a match dancing in each centre. 

“Take a left here,” Lalo says as the light turns green.

Nacho frowns. “I thought I was driving you back to your place.”

“Change of plans.” 

After a moment of hesitation, Nacho turns left. They make their way through the sparsely populated streets to the east side of the city, radio humming lowly in lieu of conversation. When Nacho pulls into the empty parking lot, the badly burnt _Los Pollos Hermanos_ sign is the first thing Lalo sees. 

Soot coats the immolated chickens. Their feathers are singed, their beaks blackened, no longer recognizable as the grinning mascots of bastardized Mexican cooking. Caution tape crisscrosses the door and winds around the restaurant. The windows are shattered, glass swept into unceremonious piles on the pavement or clinging to the window frame in jagged pieces. It looks like there has been some cleanup, but nothing too substantial. The destruction is still in plain view, the inside of the restaurant burnt out and skeletal, withered down to its support beams and foundational walls. The wreckage almost looks like it could still be smouldering. Lalo smells smoke hanging in the air.

The photograph in the newspaper had amused him, but seeing it in person is something completely different. He is transfixed, his stare unwavering. He can feel the heat stretching over his face, the smoke swirling in his chest. He only snaps out of it once Nacho puts the car in park. Nacho peers over at him, his face lined.

“What are we doing here?” 

“I wanted to see it for myself,” Lalo says with a grin. He laughs as he pops open the passenger door and gets out of the car. “You coming?”

Nacho hesitates in his seat. He shuts off the engine, keys jangling in his hand. “What if the cops have eyes on the place?” 

“Nah, man.” Lalo waves the suggestion away. “With damage this bad, I doubt there are any security cameras still wired up. Besides, Fring’s not gonna let the cops get too involved. He already knows who did it.” Lalo grins and ushers Nacho out of the car. “Come on, Nachito. Do this for me. As a going-away present. What do you say?”

Nacho looks at Lalo, holding his eyes in place, then wordlessly gets out of the car. 

Lalo makes sure Nacho is following behind as he makes a beeline to the rear of the restaurant. The kitchen bore the brunt of the fire. A portion of the wall is blown out, leaving the interior exposed. Lalo steps over the rubble. He ducks beneath a charred beam, finding his way inside with only the light from the parking lot to guide him. He can hear Nacho retracing his steps as crumbling brick crunches beneath his boots.

Lalo looks around, his hands on his hips. “This is good work, Ignacio.” He whistles lowly to express his admiration. “How the hell did you pull this off?” 

Nacho comes to stand beside him, arms crossed. “I rigged the fryers to blow.”

He says it so inconsequentially, his voice so soft and so malleable. Lalo thinks about his mouth, about pressing his tongue into it as Nacho squirms against a wall mottled with scorch marks and ash. Lalo feels heat press up against his ribs before it sinks down between his thighs.

“Wow, look at you,” Lalo says. “ _Muy inteligente._ I like it.”

Lalo finds his way deeper into the interior of the restaurant. He can hear water dripping from the ceiling, the roof damaged from whatever rig the fire department used to put out the blaze. A car passes by and its high-beams illuminate the dining area. For a moment, Lalo can make out the faint shape of booths and tables and the charred remains of a soda machine on the floor. There is spray paint on the wall, the cash register crowbarred into pieces. Just like he laid it out on the phone, maybe even better. His arousal grows.

“We should get out of here,” Nacho says.

Lalo turns towards him but stays where he is behind the counter. A room-length of space remains between them. “Why so soon?”

Nacho shrugs. “Probably not the best idea to get caught at a crime scene while out on bail.”

“Who said anything about getting caught?” Lalo chuckles. “Come over here.”

“What for?”

“I want to show you something.”

Nacho walks over but stops just shy of meeting Lalo halfway. He leans against what was once a wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area. Lalo closes the space for him.

“Look around, Ignacio. You should admire your work,” Lalo says, getting close enough that he can see the whites of Nacho’s eyes. They reflect the glow of the streetlights outside. “It was just like we discussed. Down to the fucking spray paint, which was a nice touch by the way.”

“Is that why you brought me here?” Nacho asks. Recognition passes over his face at the mention of their conversation, recognition and then shame and then defiance. “You brought me here so I could admire the destruction I caused?” He exhales sharply, almost a scoff. “You think this is beautiful?”

“Not beautiful. Equalizing!” Lalo says. “Don Eladio, Juan Bolsa, Gustavo Fring . . . When everything is said and done, this is what their empires will look like: shit. Just rubble and ash to show for it, you know what I mean?” He chuckles, gesturing to the burnt-out booths, the tables, the chairs, the melted welcome mats and pithy slogans covered with soot. “I could die tomorrow and I would look just like this. Hell, so would you. But what does it even matter, you know?” 

Lalo feels emboldened. He takes another step forward. Nacho tenses, but he stays where he is, tipping his chin upwards to stare Lalo in the eye as he closes in. Lalo sees fear or maybe fascination written on his face. They always look the same to him. They certainly say the same things. The want drawing him forward is almost too much to bear as his hand rests on Nacho’s face, knuckles freckled with ash.

“Once you realize this is where we’re both headed, Ignacio, I think you’ll learn to appreciate destruction a little bit more.” Lalo smooths his thumb over Nacho’s jaw. His stubble feels rough against Lalo’s fingertips. Nacho looks down, unflinching, his eyelashes casting jagged shadows across his cheeks. “It might make things easier on you.”

“Easier? I did everything you asked.”

“I know. I just wish you enjoyed it.” 

Lalo drops his hand from Nacho’s face, drawing a playful line from his collarbone to his chest to his stomach. Lalo can feel Nacho’s breathing quicken as he goes, his own pulse flaring in his wrists. Out of reach from the streetlights, the corner they have found themselves in is too dark to see much of anything, but Lalo can tell when their eyes meet. Lalo can feel Nacho looking at him.

It feels like heat. 

That feeling alone compels him to press Nacho back against the wall. There is a muffled thump and the entire restaurant seems to groan with the impact, dust falling from the ceiling to settle into Lalo’s already grey-streaked hair. Weakened by the fire and nearly reduced to char, the wall threatens to give out from the weight but somehow it still holds. 

Lalo hears Nacho’s throat hitch as he nudges his thighs apart, one hand brushing below Nacho’s belt while the other grips his hip, aching to bruise him. Lalo feels Nacho’s erection straining against his jeans, so he palms him. 

Nacho bites back a groan. “Are we really going to do this here?” 

Lalo presses into Nacho, the resulting sigh a sweet balm against his face. “Where else?” 

Lalo smirks, waiting for an ungiving response, but Nacho leaves the question unanswered. Instead, he brings Lalo closer, forcing their hips flush against one another. The action is almost violent, some other purpose buried beneath it, but Lalo finds himself unperturbed. He grinds against Nacho while Nacho finds recourse against his back, hands gripping his shoulders, wrinkling his shirt. Lalo moves to undo his belt, fingers carefully unfastening the buckle, tugging it loose.

Lalo sees the precipice, a heaviness replacing the heat he was feeling seconds before.

But then Nacho is kissing him.

Lalo falters for a moment, surprised by the feeling of Nacho’s mouth, warm and pliable and unexpectedly pleasant against his. As soon as Lalo reciprocates, Nacho’s tongue pushes past his lips to his teeth. Lalo opens up for him, deepening the kiss into something less gentle, easier to stomach. He chokes back a moan when he realizes Nacho is reaching between them to remove his belt himself. His fingers are clumsy and quick, purposefully dragging against the front of his jeans to offer himself some sort of relief. 

“Eager, huh?” Lalo asks when the kiss breaks. He presses against Nacho but stops just shy of creating friction, teasing him, preventing Nacho from touching himself.

“Fuck.” Nacho exhales shakily, meeting his eyes. “Lalo, please. I need—I _need_ this.”

The atmosphere around Lalo seems to grow sharper as their voices cut the quiet in half, the sound echoing amongst the rubble. Lalo becomes aware of his surroundings again, the smell of wet plaster and cinder sticking inside his nose. 

“Not unless you tell me you want it,” Lalo says, his mouth near Nacho’s ear. “Tell me you like it.”

“I do. I want it,” Nacho says. “I like it. Lalo—”

“What do you like about it?” Lalo asks as he replaces Nacho’s hands with his own, slowly undoing the zipper on his jeans. “Tell me, Ignacio.”

“The destruction,” Nacho chokes out. “The fire, the heat, the smell of gasoline.”

Lalo smirks. It resembles their phone conversation, Nacho just repeating what Lalo said in order to appease him. Lalo nods, not really giving a shit whether Nacho means it or not, then methodically slides Nacho’s jeans over his hips. 

“I want you to keep thinking about it while I touch you.” 

Lalo moves his lips to Nacho’s neck, brushing his pulse point before nipping at the skin there. Nacho’s underwear soon follows his jeans and Nacho gasps as his bare skin is exposed to the air. The weather is warm enough not to be uncomfortable, but the restaurant is damp and drafty from all the damage. A chill passes through Lalo as he reaches down and strokes Nacho experimentally. Nacho feels feverish and heavy in his hand, the head of his cock already wet with moisture which Lalo smooths out with his thumb. Nacho groans. Lalo kisses him again—hard enough that Nacho knocks his head against the wall—before sinking to his knees in front of him. Nacho’s eyes follow Lalo down as he goes. 

“I don’t want you to look at me, Ignacio,” Lalo tuts as he settles amongst the rubble, still keeping up the rhythm of his hand. “I want you to look at what you’ve done.”

Nacho looks away just as Lalo takes most of him into his mouth, trying to show him that it pays to wait. Nothing about the act is submissive, not the way Lalo presses into Nacho's hip, kneading into the skin, not the way Lalo swallows around him, his breath even and measured. If anything, Nacho is at his mercy, caught between his teeth. 

Nacho braces himself against the wall, keeping his eyes where Lalo has told him to look. When Lalo drags his tongue down the length of his cock, Nacho moans low in his throat, his eyelids fluttering closed for just a moment. Likely out of desperation to steady himself, he slots a hand through Lalo’s hair. It rests there, too gentle for comfort at first, then Nacho tugs. Lalo feels a pleasurable discomfort spread through his scalp and seep down his neck. 

Whether or not Nacho intends it as a power play, Lalo’s amused by his half-assed attempt at dominance. He flattens his tongue, drags it along the tip, and Nacho stiffens, his muscles tensing. Lalo wonders if Nacho’s replaying what he did to this place in his mind, if Nacho knows all of this was for Lalo and Lalo alone, less tactical than it was hedonistic. Lalo feels his cock ache at the thought, but only as recompense. His own release is always just a consequence of the act, never what he’s really after when he soaks his sins in gasoline and strikes match after match after match. He only hopes now that Nacho will feel the same.

Nacho swears under his breath when he comes, his hips stuttering forward ever so slightly. It happens too soon for Nacho to choke out a warning, so Lalo swallows around him, using a hand to press back against his thigh to avoid being gagged. He lets Nacho ride out his orgasm before unceremoniously pulling his mouth from his cock. He spits onto the floor, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, slightly irritated by the mess. 

Nacho still has his eyes closed when Lalo gets to his feet. Nacho reaches for him, kisses him, but the novelty of it has worn off without the looming threat of violence forcing Nacho to play his hand. Lalo feels nothing for it. After Lalo pulls away, Nacho opens his eyes. He looks at Lalo and not the destruction behind him, but he should know by now they are one and the same. 

“I wonder what it would look like,” Lalo says wistfully, his hand coming up to rest on Nacho’s neck. His thumb brushes just above his trachea, not yet pressing.

“What?” Nacho asks.

Lalo smiles. “You, up in flames.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've finally lost it. 
> 
> Anyways! Thank you for reading and let me know what you think. This was about 4k words longer than I intended so any feedback is much appreciated.


End file.
